


Rab & Jay's Roleplays

by onetiredboy, Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Each Chapter has its own tags, Other, Ratings may vary, Roleplay, Roleplay Logs, You can read them in the notes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23818780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: A Rab and a Jay walk into a Discord server. They both talk about how they haven't done roleplay in years because of how shitty they are at remembering to respond. Naturally, they decide to do one together.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	Rab & Jay's Roleplays

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Chapter 1! This one is a hurt/comfort with a fluffy ending, based off the prompt 'Don't Let Them See You Cry'. In this roleplay, Jay was Juno and Rab was Peter. I've separated our responses with a few extra spaces just so y'all can tell when one ends and the next begins! 
> 
> TWs: some canon-typical mention of suicidal ideation (The Whole Thing W Miasma); discussion of trauma (detailed discussion of The Whole Thing W Mag, brief mention of Sarah and Jack); some non-explicit mention of sex (in the Yearning way). This chapter rated a hard T/soft M I think?
> 
> When will we update again? In a week? In two months? Literally never? It's a fun surprise for all of us!

It’s a quiet night on the ‘Blanche. With their next heist on the horizon, most of the crew has retreated to their rooms to research. Peter doesn’t know whether to expect a visit from Juno later; he deliberates for a long time about whether or not to get ready for bed. Juno has seen him pajama-clad and makeup-free several times now, but Peter still feels more…naked that way. Some people dress to feel more like themselves; Peter dresses to feel more like someone else. If Juno wants to talk about something... _difficult_ , then it will be harder for Peter to engage without that shield.

Finally he plucks up his courage and crosses to his wardrobe. It's silly to worry over something so small. He selects his softest pajama pants and shirt, then throws them on before he can change his mind. He retreats to his bed and refreshes the records on his pad. He has to memorize the guards’ patrol patterns next.

Juno patters down the halls of the Carte Blanche, comms tight in his hand and shoulders drawn in. He should have called first, he knows that, or at least texted, but... texting is hard. And it's easier to leave your room with the thought in mind to get a snack, knowing full well in the back of your mind that you're going to end up at Peter Nureyev's door, than to actually sit down and confront and plan for it happening.

Okay. It's not the healthiest way to approach conversation. But it sure as hell is healthier than what Juno's used to, so that counts for something. Probably.

Nureyev's probably used to him appearing with no warning, anyway. He doesn't mean to, but he thinks they've talked every night this week. It's just... they have a lot to get through, and while talking isn't exactly _fun_ or gratifying, Juno has to believe it helps. Better than stewing over his thoughts with a pillow over his head trying to sleep, anyway, or bothering Rita all night again with his half-attempt at vulnerability.

He's getting better at that -- vulnerability -- but it's easiest with him. And then Juno's mind gets stuck again on trying to untangle the impossible puzzle in the back of his gut that's shaped in the form of the question 'what do I feel towards Peter Nureyev', and Juno almost sighs in relief when he catches sight of Nureyev's door. He pushes his rapidly accumulating doubts aside, and focuses on getting close enough to knock gently. "Ransom?"

Peter doesn’t have to wait long for the knock on his door. He steels himself as best he can; sets down his pad on the bed; rubs a hand over his face.

He loves this—he does. He loves that Juno cares about him enough— _trusts_ him enough—to talk to him about these things. It’s vital, that they address these problems now. The work is worth it. _Juno_ is worth it. But Peter won’t deny that it’s also incredibly difficult. He’s used to fleeing tough situations, not steeping in them.

He gets out of bed anyway. Crosses the room and taps the doorpad. As the door slides open he says, “Juno.”

He’s often reduced to that, around Juno. Just saying his name, like a reminder to himself that he’s still there. Peter steps aside to give Juno the space to enter. He’s not sure what to say, so he tries for something casual: “...How are you doing?”

_Oh shit,_ Juno thinks, _He's beautiful._

Which is the kind of incredibly stupid thing his brain likes to supply him with at exactly the right moments, _just_ to make sure things don't get too easy for him. It's just that he doesn't get to see Nureyev like this often -- in his PJs and ready for bed, and he knows what his appearance means to him and, shit. Now he feels guilty for having this at all, for being trusted with Peter Nureyev's dark circles and crow's feet. And it's frustratingly effective, the look of a soft cotton shirt falling away from one of Nureyev's shoulders, showing a patch of skin Juno wants to cover with his mouth. The drape of the rest of it showing off his flat chest and stomach and -- Juno shouldn't be thinking about the memory of what's under there, of how it feels when Nureyev's chest arches up underneath him or how it rumbles against Juno's back when he chuckles, low and alluring.

This crisis occurs in a matter of half a second to Juno, before he mentally slaps himself and remembers that wanting isn't his to feel anymore, and there's only the slightest hitch in his breath before he says, "I'm alright. Yeah. Great, actually."

His resolve holds up for a few more impressive seconds before he sighs, "Actually. No. That's... I'm, uh... wanted to talk. If you're up for that, right now."

Peter feels himself smile a little. Just that small admission is enough to make his heart swell. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to Juno’s honesty.

“Yes,” Peter says at last. The only source of light in his room is the lamp attached to the wall beside his bed. It casts Juno in a sunset-orange glow, which does nothing to calm Peter’s heartbeat. “Yes, that sounds fine. Let’s sit down.”

Peter’s bed is up against the corner of his room. He climbs across the mattress, crosses his legs and leans back against the wall. Anxiety has started to needle at the edges of his mind by that point. He was right to worry about his sleepwear; he feels like he’s under a spotlight. In a somewhat fruitless attempt to create a barrier between himself and Juno, he pulls the loose top blanket up over his lap. It provides a nice weight, if nothing else.

Juno hesitates a little on his way in to Nureyev's room, closing the door behind him. He's still not exactly sure where they stand, and it seems to change every time they talk. Sometimes Nureyev listens to him speak while looking fixedly at his own hands or the wall, and doesn't offer much in return. Other times they get close to to touching, Juno's fingers ghosting over Nureyev's knee while he tries to find a way to talk while Nureyev's pretty eyes are focused right on his. He wants to let Nureyev set the pace, and he's fine with it being... a little uncertain. God knows if Juno was in control the whole thing would be an emotional mess. But it's hard to know how to act.

Juno sits down on the bed and crosses his own legs. Their knees almost touch -- or at least, Juno's knees almost touch the blanket Nureyev's are under. He pulls at a loose string on his pyjama pants and tries to find words. He never really knows what he's going to start saying when they do this.

"So, um," he starts at last, not able to lift his eyes from his lap, "How have you been, with, uh... y'know, everything? Life onboard the 'Blanche. You holding up okay?"

It's the first time, Juno thinks, he's actually _checked in_ on Nureyev, and that embarrasses him. To think they've been talking about old hang-ups and hurt feelings and vulnerabilities, and Juno's never once asked if he's even alright. Stupid as it sounds to himself, he thinks the question is almost... too personal.

Peter tracks Juno’s fingers as he picks at his pajama pants. His chest goes tight suddenly with the desire to be held by those hands. To feel the pressure of Juno’s fingers against his own. In his wildest dreams Peter wonders what Juno’s thigh would feel like under his head, with those fingers laced through his hair…

Juno’s question breaks Peter’s trance. He looks away.

 _You holding up okay?_ Peter sits on the question for a while. Then he rolls his shoulders a bit against the wall.

“To be quite honest with you Juno, I’m not sure,” he admits. “A master thief doesn’t tend to linger; even the best can only disguise themselves for so long. With the decision to stay—to end the one-man show—comes the decision to…trust. To rely on this crew to…” he falters. Pulls the blankets a little farther up over his lap, enough to cover some of his stomach. “I’m not making any sense, am I? I’m…circling the point again. What I mean to say is that the longer I stay in one place, the more vulnerable I feel. I can’t help but worry that sooner or later, this ‘crime family’ will uncover who I really am, and then…”

And then what? He’ll be thrown off the ship, surely. To finally allow himself to be tethered to a “family,” only to be cast out…Peter doesn’t know how he expects to recover from that rejection.

It will hurt the most from Juno, of course. Peter hasn’t told him about Mag yet. He gets the sense that Juno saw something related to Brahma when he read his mind all those months ago—enough to grasp his role as a teenage revolutionary, perhaps. But he can’t have seen Mag’s death. Juno would never have come back to Peter otherwise. His morals would never allow him to devote his time and trust to a man who stabbed his father figure to death.

It’s a bridge they’ll have to cross at some point. Up until now Peter has allowed himself to be greedy. _Just one more night,_ he always promises. _One more night with him and then I’ll let this end._

Juno nods slowly as Nureyev talks. His trauma is different to Nureyev's, but he can recognise bits and pieces of the same feelings, same fears. Juno's relationship with vulnerability hasn't exactly been a walk in the park either, even if it manifests more in a fear of his openness being weaponized against him than the fear of being known.

There's nothing he can say to help Nureyev feel safe. He knows that. He tries anyway. "I mean..." he starts slowly, then fumbles for purchase as he tries to find the words to match with the thoughts in his brain. "I get... that you're afraid of that. The-the being known as you are thing. It's one of those things where... the longer things are okay while you're not doing the healthy thing -- like," he gestures to Nureyev, "acknowledging yourself, or," he gestures to himself, "going to fucking therapy -- the more scared you are to do that healthy thing, because it's rocking the boat, and even if you _know_ it'll make you better you can't help thinking things will somehow be worse. Or at least, that it'll hurt too much trying to get there and you'll never be able to go back to the comfortable way things were, and you'll be stuck somewhere new entirely-- I get it, is my point."

Juno sighs, "I don't know about the rest of the crew. And obviously, you don't have to tell everyone everything. But, I mean... you didn't scare me away, Nureyev. That's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, actually, I..." he clears his throat, "I don't want you to think my decision had anything to do with what I... what I saw. In your head. I know we haven't talked about it, I haven't, like... really known how to bring it up, I guess? This is kind of going on a tangent, I'm sorry..." he wipes a palm over his face, and then scratches through his hair absentmindedly. "You didn't frighten me off," he says again, and decides to leave it at that.

Something deep and coiled within Peter starts to relax at Juno’s words. He feels…seen. It’s a sensation that’s normally accompanied by fear, yet now he feels almost comfortable. Because it’s true. Peter knows he’s making the right decision, but it’s new and frightening, which makes it _feel_ like the wrong one.

Except he knows how this will end.

It’s a healthy choice—to be open. To trust others not to hurt you. But that feels like a general rule. Peter Nureyev became an outlier the moment he turned a knife on Mag. Peter wants to see a way out of this, where he’s better off for this attempt at permanence. But no matter which way he looks, he can only see Juno turning away from him, over and over.

Juno’s not done. Peter feels his heart rate kick up as he goes on. What did Juno see? A snapshot of a bloody knife, maybe? Mag’s limp body on a tile floor? Is he finally going to ask for context?

Juno can’t know. Not tonight. Peter’s not ready to tell him. He’s only just gotten Juno back. He can’t lose him so quickly. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he—

Peter’s throat has started to close up. He has to _breathe._ As casually as he can, he sips air through his teeth, then back out through his nose. In, out. In, out.

It’s all right. He doesn’t know what Juno will say. There’s no reason to panic…

“What did you see?” he asks at last.

Juno watches as Nureyev panics. He's damn good at hiding it, but a while ago now Juno realised if he ever wanted to really know how to help, he'd have to learn the language Peter's body speaks -- and damnit, the least Juno could do for this man is learn his signs. He sees the flicker of Nureyev's eyes away from Juno's face and the way he seems to turn inwards, like he's talking to himself. Shit, fuck -- Juno's overstepped. Kicked up the dirt on trauma Nureyev's not ready to relive. Hell, he doesn't know how that pill even worked -- maybe those memories have been hidden from Nureyev himself and Juno could push him too far by opening up the Pandora's box they're hidden in.

Juno moves without thinking, old instincts awakening in himself. He's not the best at caring, but he's been cared for enough that he has to believe some of it has rubbed off. He channels as much of Rita as he can, and tries not to choke up.

"Nureyev," he says, catches Nureyev's wrist and brings it close to press his slender hand against Juno's own stomach, "Breathe with me, alright? Calm down," he takes a few deep breaths before continuing, "Close your eyes. Just breathe, okay? I'm not telling you anything while you're this worked up."

Juno’s hand feels like an electric shock. Peter gasps; his lungs strain for air. A thought reaches him through the tumult, horrible and crystalline: If tonight goes like Peter knows it will, this could be the last time Juno Steel ever touches him.

Another pillar of resolve crumples; Peter feels his chest go tighter. He refuses to cry. He will say this, and accept the consequences, and—

He can feel Juno’s stomach rise and fall under his hand. Up and down. Deliberate, for him to follow.

_Close your eyes. Just breathe, okay?_

Peter doesn’t know what kind of sound he makes, but he knows it’s not dignified. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want Juno’s concern; his touch; his patience. He can’t be given this precious, fragile thing and be expected to forget. He’s not strong enough to file it away…

Up, down. Up, down. Juno’s sleep shirt is soft and faded with age. Peter can feel the warmth of him through the fabric. He wrestles down a breath.

Peter closes his eyes. He tries to focus.

“Please,” he heaves out the moment he has the oxygen, eyes still squeezed shut. He _will not_ cry. “I have to…know. I…”

Juno hesitates a moment longer anyway, despite the sick twist in his gut at the pain in Nureyev's voice. He doesn't know how Nureyev feels about him touching him, but to be honest, Juno's not quite sure he could do this without feeling him. So he places his other hand gently on Nureyev's shoulder.

"I..." he says quietly. He decides to work his way up from the least important detail. "Saw Brahma. You were about... seventeen, I'd guess? I saw you steal the Guardian Angel System plans." He's not sure if he should stop, feed Peter this piece by piece, or rip it off like a band-aid.

He hasn't really thought about this much in a while, himself. Of that little thin boy with the dark hair and the bright eyes and his dreams of becoming a vigilante. He still sees that boy, hopeful and _good_ and so deserving of so much, hiding behind Nureyev's features in certain moments -- glimpses of him in Nureyev's eyes, or a particular movement of his hands. It makes Juno ache inside to think of what that boy was forced to become -- a man so frightened of loving someone, of being loved as completely, as he did back with Mag, that he'd give up on his chance to _be_ just to avoid it.

"I'm so sorry," is what comes out next, punched out of Juno in a breathy gasp. "Nureyev, if I had the ability to choose, I wouldn't have wanted to see what I did. To rob you of the chance to tell me yourself."

Here it is, then, the band-aid. Juno takes a deep breath: "I saw what happened. With New Kinshasa. With Mag. And for what it's worth, Nureyev, I am so, _so_ sorry you were forced to do what you did. You were just a kid. Fuck. You were just a kid."

Peter feels Juno’s hand fold down over his shoulder, though he doesn’t open his eyes. Hadn’t he wished for this only a minute ago? He wants to be able to cherish these points of contact, but they only remind Peter of what he’s about to lose. In something torn between desperation and defiance he reaches across his chest to pin Juno’s hand to his shoulder. He can feel the ridge of Juno’s knuckles under his fingers; the texture of the back of his hand against his palm. _I’m so sorry,_ Juno says, and Peter squeezes.

Then, the words Peter could never have expected:

_…With Mag._

That’s not possible. Peter has approached this scenario from every possible angle, and he _knows_ Juno will leave him once he finds out. But here Juno tells him that he’s known all along. That he’d walked away, but not because Peter had “frightened him off.”

That he’d come back.

It doesn’t make any sense. Juno must hate him now. He _must._ He’s a murderer. Peter had a parent who loved him. And there was no question of fault; Peter had held the knife, and driven the blade through Mag’s back. Peter had killed his only family.

There’s no outcome to this story where Juno overlooks his true nature. Juno doesn’t forgive people who kill their loved ones—not on purpose. Age doesn’t change what Peter did. He’d understood the weight of his actions…

Peter feels light-headed. He’s opened his eyes at some point, though he can’t remember when. The glow from the lamp feels more red than orange now. Peter remembers the way Mag’s fingers trembled where he reached for his cheek; the smell of blood. His eyes are wet, and Juno hates him, hates him, hates him…

“Why are—” he rasps. Gulps down a breath. Reaches up a bit with the hand over Juno’s stomach, to wrench around the fabric over his chest. “ _Why?_ Why are you still here?”

Juno lets himself be wrenched forward by the hand in his shirt – he can’t resist. There’s very little he wouldn’t let Peter Nureyev do to him, which is one part a sign of his trust and three parts a bad unshakable habit that’s had that trust exploited in the past. He’s an idiot for it, he knows, but he feels somehow that this might be the time he gets to put his trust into someone who won’t use it.

He can't help a soft sigh from leaving him, and he moves the hand that had been covering Peter's own on his stomach to his other shoulder, looking him straight on. “Nureyev, I don’t know if you know what that was, with Mag. But he manipulated you – gained your trust, and your love, and used it to try and make you complicit in the murder of hundreds. And you were charged with the burden of making the decision that your idea of the greater good was more correct than his. And at the end of the day, you’ll never know what the real good was, and that will eat up at you—” he realises he’s staring slightly off centre and looks back at Nureyev again. He sighs, and explains, “Remind me to tell you a story about a guy named Jack Takano one time.”

He flexes his fingers on Nureyev’s shoulders and continues, “And… it doesn’t…doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive with the fact that he loved you. It’s… Hard. To accept both of those things as true. It’s like I—for a long time, when I thought about Ma, all I saw was… the things she did. To me and my brother. And I had to go through a lot before I could accept the fact that she… loved her kids. At times. She did. And I don’t know if I can assume, but… it seems a little bit like the opposite with you?” his voice goes high and his shoulders tight for a moment, “Like… you’re so caught up in the fact that he loved you that you can’t see that he did awful things to you, too, and that sometimes both of those things are true. I don’t know.”

Juno sighs and relaxes again. He breaks his eye-contact with Nureyev. “Why am I still here? I guess it’s because I think you’re a good person, Nureyev. I think you were given an impossible choice. But the main difference between someone like you and someone like Mag is that…. ultimately, Mag hurt you because he knew what he was doing was wrong, deep down. He said he believed in family, and in not telling lies – but he lied to you, Nureyev, because he knew how good you were, and he knew he could never get you to agree if he was honest. But you hurt Mag because you knew you were doing something right. You made this—this impossible decision, and you threw all your dreams away, because it was what you had to do for what you believed in, and that’s—that’s fucking incredible, Nureyev. No kid should have to make that choice.”

As Juno speaks Peter turns to look at his face. He studies Juno’s beautiful eye, the color made soft by the lamplight. It’s so much easier to remember he’s not on Brahma with Juno’s hands on his shoulders; his face so close to Peter’s own. Peter lets himself be grounded. _Like… you’re so caught up in the fact that he loved you that you can’t see that he did awful things to you, too, and that sometimes both of those things are true._ Peter thinks about Mag. Thinks about all the ways he used him. About how he gave Peter a home. About how he taught Peter to steal—to live—and then the day he died, to define his own history. Never again, Peter had pledged, would he allow someone else to tell him who he was or where he came from. He would embrace his role as no one and anyone.

But now…Juno has the gall to sit here, and tell Peter about his past and his true self, and to say that he’s not only forgivable but _good._ And Peter can’t hold back the tears any longer. He’s too overwhelmed with relief. Peter doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t think he _can._ He can feel his breath start to come… _differently,_ though not slower. His shoulders hitch under Juno’s hands. Peter releases the hand over his left shoulder to cover his eyes as he cries. He hunches forward in shame and exhaustion, his head almost brushing Juno’s chest. His other hand has started to shake where it still grasps Juno’s shirt. “You were supposed to leave,” he chokes. “I was so sure I would lose you. I was so…”

“Oh, _Nureyev_ ,” rushes out of Juno’s mouth, barely audible over the crack Juno feels splitting himself in two. He is so sorry he kept this awful thing to himself, kept Peter in suspension believing that their emotional intimacy had a best-before date, that there was a turning point in his honesty there’d be no recovery from, that he’d eventually become open enough with Juno to scare him away for good.

It hurts him to see him cry, too. Juno has seen Nureyev through so much without the bat of an eyelid. In Miasma’s tomb, sometimes, Juno would just break down. He’d be so hurt, and so tired, and so fucked up in his head with swirls of Nureyev’s memories and pain and his Mom’s voice, that he wouldn’t be strong enough to pretend he was coping anymore. He’d cry, and sometimes Nureyev would hold him, and sometimes Nureyev would not, would just watch him with sad eyes on the periphery of Juno’s vision, or pretend to be asleep so that Juno could have his moment of weakness in private.

But Nureyev never cried – and under all the pain Juno feels now is this growing realisation that the thought of losing Juno hurts more to him than all of that did, and that _feeling_ – the fear, and the hope, and the awful reminder that he’s not a strong enough person yet to be handed that much of another person’s love – is so vast and incomprehensible that Juno has no other choice but to pack it into a little box, pretend it all makes sense (Y _eah, the universe is infinite. Yeah, we all die one day. Yeah, Peter Nureyev can’t stand the thought of losing Juno Steel)_ and move on.

He can’t get his hands on Nureyev properly like this, and that hurts more than anything. Nureyev’s curled in on himself, but his hand is fisted tight in Juno’s shirt, and Juno has a feeling he’s not any more sure than Nureyev is as to whether he wants to be held close or left alone. He wants to hold him. He wants to tell him it’s okay to cry, and he’s beautiful when he does, and that it hurts right now but it’ll feel better, it’ll be okay, let it out, let it go.

He wants to kiss the worry-lines from Nureyev’s forehead and kiss Nureyev’s tears from his cheeks and kiss the sobs from his lips until he’s absorbed it all, and then he wants to hold Nureyev in the come down and kiss the side of his crooked nose and tell him he’s never going to leave him ever, ever again.

But he can’t, so Juno just aches, and presses his face into the hair on the back of Nureyev’s bowed head, and murmurs, “I’m right here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

_I’m not going anywhere._ And he doesn’t. Somehow, Juno Steel does not leave. His hands never stray from Peter’s shoulders. Peter buckles under the weight of the gift he’s been given, over and over. It’s like a damn has burst; a thousand files spill out of his headspace at once. With his head ducked like this, Juno shouldn’t be able to see his face. Peter mouths the words to himself—because he doesn’t have the mental space to hold them anymore and he has to _put_ them somewhere, but he’s not strong enough to say them out loud. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ Juno’s hands anchor Peter to the real world as his mind spins and spins and spins. At last the deluge thins out. Peter’s mental files settle like leaves after a windstorm. Peter feels the hug of his nightshirt. The skin around his eyes stings; his legs ache.

He sniffles, and feels disgusting. He needs to get a tissue from the bedside table. But he doesn’t want to shake off Juno’s touch. Peter’s so tired now. His thoughts are slow and sticky like molasses. In a haze he unwraps the hand from around Juno’s shirt. Then he shifts Juno’s hand off his right shoulder. He holds Juno’s palm flat to his chest—right at the center, so that his index finger rests in the divot of his clavicle. Peter doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just knows that he’s exhausted and so, so lucky. _All of me,_ Peter wants to say. He flattens his own hand over Juno’s on his chest. _You have all of me._ What comes out is, “Juno. Thank you.”

Juno’s brain tries to keep up with the signals Nureyev gives off – but the language he speaks with his movements is complex, with so many synonyms and homophones Juno is terrified he’ll mistranslate. Nureyev takes his hand from Juno’s shirt and shifts Juno’s hand from his shoulder – a clear statement. But then he presses Juno’s hand to his chest – an antonym.

And then semantics become so desperately irrelevant, because Nureyev says _Thank you,_ and Juno can’t breathe.

He can’t do anything – he’s frozen in place. Nureyev’s chest is warm through the soft fabric of his shirt, and Juno can just faintly feel the miniscule tremor of his pulse underneath his palm. It’s… strangely intimate, sitting in silence and letting the inherent trust in this action speak its own words. It doesn’t need a translation. It’s a starting point. It almost seems like a test. Juno wants to take that test straight on – he wants to see how far Nureyev will let him slide his hand upwards. If he’ll let him cup the side of his neck, his cheek. If he’ll let him brush the wet tracks from under his eyes.

If he’ll let him kiss him, let him use his lips and tongue and teeth to speak their own language, and with it tell Nureyev everything he hasn’t been able to find the courage to put into words. Like that he's not sure that what they had back then was love yet, but that whatever it was he still feels it when Nureyev so much as breathes in his direction; that it's been a long time since love was a thing Juno thought was worth the pain that comes with it, but thinking of having it with Nureyev makes him want to try.

Juno breaks his trance. He swallows, and brushes his thumb gently over Nureyev’s chest. With his other hand, he reaches for the bedside table and brings back a tissue.

He hands it out, and the confusion starts to trickle back in. But the problem with words is that they’re awkward middle-languages, stepping stones invented to translate the complex meanings of thoughts and actions into something transferable – and inevitably in the process simplify them so much that their meaning gets flattened. So Juno thinks, without words, that he’d be anything to Nureyev if he just gave the word – if it meant seeing Peter Nureyev at his happiest, he’d be anything _._ And what comes out, instead, dumbly, is, “What do you want? Right now?”

Juno’s thumb does a little sweep over Peter’s chest. Peter does his best not to shiver; he fails. Then Juno passes him a tissue.

And there’s _something_ about that action. Something so…domestic, against the miraculousness of the situation. Peter laughs. It’s a small thing—wet and quiet. He’d started to go fuzzy around the edges as he came down, and this—the brush of Juno’s fingers as he hands him the tissue; the care behind the motion—penetrates the fog. Peter feels himself start to come back to life, like a fire coaxed from dying embers.

He blows his nose, then grabs a second tissue for good measure. Thank goodness for Peter’s late night snack habits—there’s a waste basket close at hand, scattered with wrappers. Peter bins the tissues. He must look awful, with his red nose and puffy eyes. He tries not to care. If Juno hasn’t left because of Mag, he won’t leave because of this.

_What do you want? Right now?_

After so many years of channelling other people, Peter has almost forgotten how to wear his own expressions. It’s simple now, though, to look at Juno and let his face reveal what he feels. The gratefulness; the adoration.

“This,” Peter answers softly. “This is what I want. To sit here with you, and know that you’ve chosen to stay, and...” He’d let go of Juno’s hand; he dares to reach back now, and hold Juno’s with both of his own. “To hold you. That’s all I’ve wanted for a very long time.” A pause. “And you, Juno? What do _you_ want?”

That’s a question Juno can’t answer right now, at least not all at once. Because the truth is he wants a lot of things. He wants to kiss Nureyev, and he wants not to kiss him but just to hold him instead and fall asleep together. And he wants to press him back onto the bed and speak with his hands until Nureyev’s body shakes all over with the promises he writes on his skin. And he wants to cry a little, too, because he’s worn out and confused and relieved and a hundred other things.

The change in Nureyev’s demeanour is palpable, and that’s… a lot. Juno’s seen Nureyev vulnerable before but not like _this_ , not where everything he thinks and feels is plain and honest on his face.

And then there’s the admission – _all I’ve wanted for a very long time._ Juno is a little tight-chested, and there’s flutters in his stomach like he’s fourteen with a particularly strong crush on Mick Mercury all over again. He wants to ask him what he means by that – what his definition of being held is and whether it means what Juno thinks it means.

And honesty is… probably what he should be doing. Hell, talking it out has seemed to go pretty well so far.

But… that’s the issue. With Nureyev stripped bare like this, Juno can’t dump everything he feels on him. Even if Nureyev _does_ still feel for him, if the attraction is still there, that doesn’t mean he’s ready for… what? Juno doesn’t know. And he realises he hasn’t answered the question.

Juno puts his other hand over Nureyev’s two, and decides just to let this go where it will. He doesn’t have to think too hard. So…

“Yeah,” Juno says, “Yeah, Nureyev, I… want that too. Haven’t stopped wanting that, actually.” He swallows. His heart beats rapidly in his chest.

“Here,” Juno murmurs, and it feels a little awkward, but he shifts so that he’s sitting beside Nureyev on the bed, a little distance apart, and then he coaxes Nureyev down with hands on his shoulders, down until his head is against Juno’s thigh.

Juno puts his fingers through Nureyev’s hair, and rests his other hand on Nureyev’s chest, “Is this… alright?”

Peter swears his heart stops when Juno plants his hands on his shoulders. The world tilts, and then—

His head is on Juno’s thigh. Peter can’t breathe. He’d thought he’d be cried out by now, but his eyes sting all over again. He lets out a long gust of breath. He grasps the hand on his chest as though it were a life preserver.

He’d never thought he’d have this. Peter’s projected future was supposed to be cold and lonely. A few minutes ago he’d been braced to watch Juno walk away. Now there’s a soft lap under his head and fingers in his hair. The love in Peter’s chest grows and grows until there’s barely room for his lungs.

 _Alright?_ Peter doesn’t know how to tell Juno how many worlds away from _all right_ he makes him feel. How much of a gift he’s given him tonight.

He feels helpless under the weight of his own emotions. He needs to tell Juno how he feels, but he _can’t can’t can’t._ He shakes out folder after folder, and the words won’t come. His lips won’t open. His tongue won’t move. Frustration tangles up his gut. He’s caught by a sort of manic desperation, so filled with the need to make Juno _understand,_ that for a moment all thoughts of consequence escape him. In that short few seconds, he brings the hand on his chest up to his lips and presses a fierce kiss to the palm.

Nureyev’s grip on Juno’s hand is almost a little too tight for a moment – Juno watches him try to form words and all at once understands. He knows this feeling. He can remember a time back when he was coming off the drugs where Rita found him after a relapse, too frightened to ask her for help. And when she’d told him she forgave him and reminded him relapse is a part of recovery, and that she was proud of him for fighting so hard every day, he’d held her like this. Like letting go for an instant would make her evaporate from him, like there was no other way he could tell her what she meant.

He feels a twinge of the guilt he feels when he thinks of Rita and all she’s done with him for so little in return. And then that’s wiped, because Nureyev lifts his hand and presses his lips to Juno’s palm.

A little exhalation leaves him, and Juno is… calm. Weirdly calm, or maybe just so in awe of this little moment that he can’t find the space to be nervous. He strokes the side of Nureyev’s face with his hand, and just looks down at him. He pulls his other hand slowly through Nureyev’s hair. _You’re so damn beautiful_ , he thinks. And then he opens his mouth, and what falls unthinkingly out is that—exactly that thought, untranslated and raw, and Juno chokes up. His fingers still in Nureyev’s hair.

Peter’s actions catch up to him all at once, and he releases Juno’s hand. Fear clogs his throat; he feels his whole body go taut as a bowstring. He shouldn’t have done that. He doesn’t know how Juno feels about him. Peter has gone and taken Juno’s beautiful gift and reached back to steal more and more of his charity, to push and push because that’s what Peter _does._ He’s greedy and he’s manipulative and he’s never known when to stop, and now he’s crossed the line—

But a hand brushes the side of his face. Peter startles out of his spiral. Fingers run through his hair.

Peter can’t remember the last time someone did this to him. He’s not sure anyone ever has. There were partners here and there—marks, mostly—who would slip their fingers up Peter’s neck and through his hair as they kissed. But no one ever played with his hair this way, for no other reason than to soothe him.

It feels…perfect. Despite his fears, Peter starts to melt against the bed. Each back-and-forth pass of Juno’s fingers weaves another strand of tension from his body. He wants to fall asleep right here, safe under Juno’s hands…

_You’re so damn beautiful._

And all the air leaves Peter's chest at once. Somewhere along the line he'd closed his eyes; he snaps them open to stare at Juno. His chest is strung so tight he’s sure it will snap apart.

So much about tonight doesn’t make sense. _How_ could Peter _possibly_ be beautiful right now? He’s wearing his casual sleepwear—not even the fancy getup he stole from that fancy resort on Venus, but the same old flannel comfort clothes he’s clung to for years. He’s very, _very_ without makeup, all stuffed up and flushed with red, swollen eyes. With the work of Juno’s fingers, his hair must look ridiculous too.

And yet, Peter can _hear_ Juno’s honesty. The words hit him like a dumbbell to the gut.

_Beautiful._

As much as he pleads with himself, Peter’s tear ducts won’t be swayed. All too soon his eyes are wet again.

He reaches up. What for, he’s not sure. “Juno,” he says, voice thick. He’s not sure he can bring himself to say anything else. _“Juno.”_

Nureyev’s eyes snap open and Juno almost laughs. This is ridiculous. This is so ridiculous. Juno can’t have Peter Nureyev, a man who looks like he fell out of a goddamn painting, just lying in his lap staring up at him like he’s the centre of the damn universe like this. He’s a little puffed up from crying, but his eyes still look like Juno could fall into them, and his hair is still so soft and silky Juno wants to keep stroking it forever. His light brown skin is smooth and his jaw is sharp and his face is lean but soft and there’s no cherub’s smile right now, but Juno can see where it lives in the lines on his face.

And it’s not just how he looks but how _achingly_ beautiful he is inside that gets Juno, with his funny way of seeing the world and his perfectionist mannerisms and his bottomless pockets and the way he goes bright red if you point out even the tiniest mistake he’s made, and the way he’s so strong-willed, and the way he’s been through so much, and the way that after everything…

After everything, Peter Nureyev is still a man who makes Juno feel… a lot.

Nureyev reaches for him, and Juno catches the closest of Nureyev’s hands. He brings it to his mouth, and presses a soft kiss to his palm. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t know what to say. He should say something. “Nureyev…” he tries, but it trails into silence.

Juno's lips meet Peter's palm, and he's sure his heart will burst. He wonders whether Juno can feel him shaking against his lips.

"I still..." he croaks, then takes a shaky breath and tries again, stronger this time but no less quiet: "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Juno. After tonight, we never have to speak of this again. But I can't lie here a moment longer without you knowing how much you mean to me." A part of Peter wants to curl onto his side and turn his face down against Juno's leg. He forces himself to stay flat on his back. He's totally prone; totally honest. "I've deluded myself. Fed myself a lie where you were a flight of fancy. I still have...so much to learn about you. But..." He swallows. "For all that I already know of you. For all I've yet to learn. I...I do love you, Juno. And if that makes me a fool, then I've never been happier for it."

Juno goes on three separate different rollercoasters as he listens to Nureyev’s words. There’s the agonising crawl upwards when he says _don’t mean to make you uncomfortable_ – the part of the ride when you’re wishing it wasn’t too late to stop. There’s the moment’s peak with _how much you mean to me_ , and then then the gradual, slow tipping feeling when he says _deluded myself_ and _for all that I already know_.

And then Juno’s stomach free-falls.

_I do love you, Juno._

The bottom of the tracks come rushing towards him, the question written on the sleepers that blur past as the car crashes down _is what you feel love is what you feel love is what—_ but then at the last moment, Juno gets swept away from those thoughts and up in a loop-de-loop of Nureyev’s words _I’ve never been happier for it._

And it doesn’t matter _what_ he feels, all it matters is that he feels it – and there’s time for talk after this is over – time to stand in the gift shop and cringe at the photo of the look on his face mid-free-fall.

Right now, Juno breathes out a sigh of relief. He laughs softly and says, “You are a fool, Nureyev. A damn stupid one. Are you gonna get up here and kiss me, or what?”

It doesn’t register for a second, like the seconds between lightning and thunder. Peter lies on his back as though paralyzed. He’s vaguely aware of the rise of his chest as his lungs fill, and the pressure of the hand still wrapped around his own.

Then he laughs. It’s giddy and full of disbelief. His hand slips from Juno’s as he props an elbow beside him on the bed—leverage as he sits up. He shuffles around on the blankets to face Juno.

They’re so close, now. Peter Nureyev’s heart races. He doesn’t know when or whether he’ll ever wrap his head around this—the fact that he lives in a world where Juno _wants this_. He wants to let himself believe. He wants to believe _so badly._

But despite Peter's doubts, Juno asked. So Peter leans forward. He wills his hands to be still, but there’s still a slight tremor as he lifts them to Juno’s face. He cups Juno’s cheeks, light enough to barely feel him on his fingertips. Peter can feel Juno’s breath on his lips. He hovers.

He remembers a night so long ago when this was easy, to lean down and kiss Juno Steel for all he was worth. Peter had known he only had one chance. Juno was onto him; he had to disappear, and soon.

Then, months later, covered in burn scars and huddled under the sheets of an old hotel bed, he'd thought he recognized the heated way Juno kissed him. But he’d told himself he was wrong. This was not the same. This was not a goodbye.

Then he woke up to rustle of clothes.

But Peter came back. Juno came back. And Juno seems determined to prove he’s here to stay.

So Peter tilts his head and closes the tiny gap between them.

This kiss is… different, to everything he’s had before with Nureyev. Juno hadn’t _known_ Nureyev when he met him. The man he’d seen all that time ago was all sharp teeth and intense eyes and a look on his face like he’d just as happily make Juno breakfast in bed as throw him down on the nearest flat surface and ravage him.

It had been… an effective combination – one part something Juno felt he didn’t deserve and would never admit he secretly wanted, and one part Juno thought was exactly what was coming to him, and would never admit he secretly didn’t.

Juno had kissed Nureyev, that first time, and it had broken his heart how _right_ it felt. That kiss was heavy, a reminder to Juno of another of the million different ways the universe liked to dangle something good right in front of him just to pull it away when his resolve finally crumbled and he reached out for it.

Then, in a hotel room… that was… a lot. In a lot of different ways. The sex was amazing, Juno was mostly present for all of that – Nureyev had forced them to slow down enough that Juno had started to be a little more grounded before they moved on to it, but the kissing part…

Juno wasn’t all there for that. He knows it happened, knows he wanted it to, knows it was good. But a part of him was reeling with the knowledge it hadn’t been 24 hours since he tried to _kill_ himself, a plan that had always been hanging around at the back of his mind but he didn’t think would ever actually come to _fruition._ And a part of him was still down there, dead in that room.

It was a long time after that night before Juno started to feel less like a ghost.

And even aside from all that, he’d hardly had time to understand or process what he knew about Nureyev. He knew his past, but that was all… separate to the man he’d been around.

In the tomb, he’d seen a lot of the Peter Nureyev he saw in his head on the edges of his periphery. But, like a spot on the edge of your vision, when he tried to look directly at him, he’d slip away underneath a mask with a confident smile – not exactly a different person, maybe, but a different iteration all the same, a Peter Nureyev who could let lies like _any day now, we’ll get out of here_ slip out of his mouth and sound like he believed them. Juno would see the smile drop from Nureyev’s face the second he looked away, but he never said anything. It wasn’t meant for his eyes.

The closest he’d been to sewing together the man and the memory was in the after. Nureyev kissing soft sounds from Juno’s lips, murmuring things like _that’s it, I’ve got you_ and _you were perfect, Juno._ The skin under his eyes had been bruised with tiredness; the eyes themselves wide with adoration. His makeup – still infuriatingly perfect despite it all – had been tailored to perfection; his smile had been unconscious.

Juno had almost known, then.

But it took until this, until after the case with the globe, where Nureyev was forced to confront the ways his masks hurt him as much as helped. Until late nights like these where Juno learned who Peter Nureyev _really_ was, until he learned he was a man Juno wanted to do things right with.

This kiss is different.

Peter’s hands cup his face. He puts his hands on Nureyev’s waist and kisses him. Slowly and softly. He kisses him, and he thinks, _I don’t know what I’m doing, but I promise you I’ll try._

There are lips on Peter’s. There are hands on his waist. He feels like he’s been shocked back to life. He doesn’t think Juno has ever kissed him like this, with such a blatant lack of urgency. It was one thing for Juno to say they had time, and another entirely for Peter to _feel_ it on his lips.

In that moment, Peter believes. Juno wants him. Juno _wants_ Peter Nureyev, baggage and all.

The two break for a second. Then Peter presses forward again; he smiles against Juno’s mouth. It’s a wild joy that fills his chest, bright and miraculous like a meteor shower. He hopes Juno can feel it in the kiss the same way Peter felt his constancy.

In the next pause for breath Peter fans out his fingers. He takes advantage of the lull, leaning forward to press a kiss to Juno’s forehead, soft but deliberate.

“I’m at a loss for words,” he murmurs, still slightly breathless. He tilts his head down until their foreheads rest together. “I wish I could think of something clever to say. Some way to tell you how happy I am. How…” He gives another quiet laugh. “How _lucky_ I feel.”

Juno’s instinct is to blurt out some reason as to why he’s the lucky one, or why Nureyev’s making a mistake, or list one of the hundreds of his flaws. But he can’t find the words. He pushes deeper for them, but still none come. It’s not that his flaws are up and gone – they just feel so irrelevant to this moment.

So Juno flips Nureyev over, in a rush of movement, trying not to knock their heads together when they fall against the mattress, and he leans down to kiss him again.

“I know,” he says, between kisses, “Me too. I know.”

He opens his mouth into the kiss just a moment before he pulls away – he’s desperate to refamilarise himself with the taste of Nureyev’s tongue and the individual feeling of every inch of his body, but not without talking first. That can wait for another time.

Juno kisses down his jaw instead, his hand brushing over the jawbone on the other side of Nureyev’s face. In a second he’ll lift himself up, try and work out the particulars of what it is Nureyev wants, but for now, he basks in the glow in his chest, and leans back up to kiss him softly again.

Peter starts as Juno flips them onto the bed; another laugh punches out of him. One arm stays planted on the bed for support as he leans up to meet Juno’s kisses; the other finds Juno’s shoulder. He shifts his grip, struck again by his freedom to touch. It’s been so, so long since someone held him—kissed him like this. Like they meant it. Juno’s touch is electric where his fingers trace his jawline.

_Me too. I know._

There are lips on Peter’s jaw, now. A wave of emotion builds with each kiss, and Peter—so painfully _loved_ —has to shut his eyes again for a second to gather himself.

As Juno leans back from another kiss, Peter says, “Would you…”

He stops. Some clarity returns to him, and he remembers that he has no right to ask anything of Juno. Not tonight. Not after he’s given Peter his patience; his understanding; his reciprocation. “Never mind. Please—forget I said anything.”

Juno stops, his face still barely inches from Nueryev's. "What?" he asks softly, "What do you need?"

There's an uncharacteristic simplicity to him in this moment. There's no complicated thoughts or emotions, just a simple peace in the fact that, for one in his life, Juno knows he's doing the right thing. He says, as easy as breathing, "Anything you want, Nureyev," and leans down to kiss him again, then his forehead, the side of his nose, "Just tell me."

Peter’s breath stutters again. The hand on Juno’s shoulder migrates to the side of his neck. He feels the muscles move under his fingers as Juno turns his head to reach his forehead—his nose. Each kiss lends Peter another ounce of courage, until at last he asks,

“Would you stay the night?”

It’s so quiet that the words are almost lost under the rustle of the sheets. Some unseen weight left Peter along with the question; he feels his body go lax under Juno’s, though his hand doesn’t leave Juno’s neck. He brushes his thumb up and down. “Just to sleep. I would…I’d like to be near you, right now. If that’s all right.”

Juno knows, by this point, that no matter what he thinks he's felt before with anyone, Peter Nureyev makes it different. He's not sure if it's something about him in particular, or them together in particular, or if Juno's just unused to actually doing things the healthy way around. But either way the words _like nothing else_ appear in his head.

And it is like nothing else -- the softness Nureyev shows him. The way he asks and checks and is careful with him. It should make him feel like he's being babied. It doesn't. It feels kind of like a bubble the two of them are in together -- within this space, there's no need to be alright with everything, and there's no need to feel ashamed if you're not.

Juno doesn't know how to feel about the fact that that feeling is unfamiliar. Instead, he laughs softly, "Can I tell you a secret, Nureyev?" he mutters, and lies down with his head on Nureyev's chest. He ends up with one of his legs between Nureyev's own, one of his hands flat-palmed on his chest, feeling his breathing, his heart-beat. His mouth ends up against Nureyev's neck as he says, "I kind of forgot I was ever going to leave."

Peter reaches up to cover Juno’s hand with his own—a mirror to back when Peter would swear on his soul that Juno was about to leave. That moment feels like a galaxy away, now. So much has changed within such a short period of time.

“Don’t, then,” Peter says, emboldened now. The tremor in his voice ruins any chance of nonchalance.

Peter feels Juno’s mouth on his neck and shudders. His warm weight drags him down towards sleep; the whiplash of the past hour has left Peter totally spent. He can already feel his eyelids start to droop. “Buddy once told us the lights on this ship have a speaker-recognition function,” he slurs, too far away now to reach his wall lamp switch. “Do you remember? I’ve never quite gotten it to work.” Peter releases Juno’s hand so he can throw an arm over his back—or, what part of him he can reach while pinned under his chest. “‘Wall lights off.’ It’s…I’m sure that’s the phrase. ‘Wall lights off.’” The lamp light doesn’t so much as flicker. “‘Wall lights… _off_.’”

Juno smiles into Peter’s shoulder, “You mean ‘lights out’?”

Darkness at once settles over the room like a heavy blanket. All that’s left is the two of them. Juno tips his head and kisses Peter’s jaw one last time, “Good night, Nureyev.”

Peter murmurs a sound that could be an attempt at a good night back. Silence settles between them for a long time. Juno lies awake in that silence. He feels the rise and fall of Nureyev’s chest, the way his fingers twitch occasionally on Juno’s shoulder.

He’s not sure Nureyev is awake, so maybe it goes entirely unheard. Juno’s not sure if that’s what gives him the confidence to say anything. Juno shifts one more time against Nureyev’s side and murmurs, barely loud enough to hear, “I missed you.”

He knows it’s not this simple. They don’t have one teary reunion and live happily ever after. But even this is beyond what Juno had come to hope or expect from Nureyev. He can’t quite believe he’s here.

Nureyev falls asleep in minutes. Juno watches him in the dark for hours.

There’s no urgency to the way he memorises what Peter Nureyev, content and asleep, feels like against his body. There’s no deep sinking feeling growing at the back of his stomach. Juno watches him simply because he can, because even if he gets a lifetime of this, he still doesn’t want to waste a second.

Juno’s eyes grow heavy, and he doesn’t so much fall asleep as stumble softly into it. The last thing he does before he slips away is slur, half-unintelligible and unheard by either of them—

“Love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jay -- I've never posted a roleplay before, so I hope y'all like it! Please comment if you did! Perhaps even prompt us...? I can't promise we'll take anything onboard but... eyes emoji... ?


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